


Blood & Water

by viictoriasong



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Royalty AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-07
Updated: 2016-09-07
Packaged: 2018-02-16 12:51:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2270430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viictoriasong/pseuds/viictoriasong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Modern Royalty AU. Sherlock Holmes prefers a life of privacy and solitude, away from the public eye: he always felt blessed to have been born the second child. After Mycroft announces he shall not succeed their mother as ruler of the United Kingdom, Sherlock reluctantly takes the task upon himself. When his 'arranged' marriage to noble women Molly Hooper turns out to be a succes rather than a drag, he finds it harder and harder to stick to his promise of one day being crowned King...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This au started out as a rather cheesy setting for some Sherlolly cuteness. The more I thought about it however, the more I realised this is't far off for the Holmes' boys at all - they're arrogant towards others, socially isolated since childhood (and somewhat inept in this area), manipulative and greedy. Stereotypical Prince behaviour much? Comments and reviews are much welcome. I hope you enjoy!

_He doesn’t enjoy telling Sherlock these things. Quite the contrary – but Mycroft Holmes, heir apparent to the British throne, hasn’t been raised to forsake his duties. He needs to get this done: for happiness, for the House of Holmes, for his little brother, and even more so for their father. Still, he can’t help himself from being less confident than usual._

_"It has been decided the Crown shall not pass on to me.”_

_Sherlock, sitting on the other side of Mycroft’s desk, raises his eyebrows in surprise. “Well, well, has it really? It’s quite unlike you to let such an opportunity go by. I always imagined being crowned was the final part in your plan for reaching divine status. You have always been quite partial to attention of the masses.” He snorts loudly at the mental image it conjures up. ”Your son will inherit?”_

_Mycroft swallows hard. He does not often find things difficult, but this is most definitely. “The furthering of our family dynasty shall be through_ you _.”_

_A shadow falls over the younger Holmes’ face. “You can’t possibly be serious.” Mycroft’s lips form a cold, straight line. “While our mother was out shaking hands and cutting ribbons, I busied myself with actual politics and cemented my position at the highest ranks. My value to this family lies in what I do behind the scenes, and I can’t keep doing that while ruling a nation.”_

_F or some moments, Sherlock’s face stays completely blank. He thinks on the implications of Mycroft’s words. Then, as realisation hits, he pushes his chair back in anger and stands up. “Over my dead body. You know damn well that I have absolutely no desire to sit on a throne. I suggest you find someone else to solve this little problem for you.” He turns to make a quick exit when his brother speaks again._

_"The idea came from our father.”_

_Sherlock froze on the spot. Of all the things he expected Mycroft to retort back, he never thought it would be something like that._

_"Why?”_

_Mycroft had known the words would have an effect. He sits up straight in his chair again, the tone of his voice regaining its usual sharpness. “As I said, I’m busy with sitting and waiting for important things to happen. Father felt that, as you have a rather… hands on approach to life, you’d be much more competent to govern a country. Rather an overachieving nitwit than a lazy intellectual I guess.”_

_Sherlock still had his back to him. Had he not, Mycroft would have seen his younger brother’s face contorted in pain. Their father had been dead a little over six months, and the loss didn’t feel any less tremendous to him. In 33 years of his life, not a single relationship he’d had touched upon the closeness he felt towards his father. He regarded John Watson as an important friend and trusted partner, but there was still a distance._

_"I know you loved him dearly. Don’t deny a dead man his final wish.” I haven’t either, Mycroft thought to himself._

_"What does our mother say? As the actual monarch, I imagine she has the final say in this.” Sherlock turns to face his brother again. He holds in his breath in anticipation._

_"She agrees completely.”_

_He exhales sharply. In a gesture of frustration, he moves his hands up to ruffle his hair. “What do I have to do?”_

_Mycroft gives him a content smile. “I’m happy you’ve come to agree. Do sit back down.” He gestures to the chair left vacant by his brother a bit earlier. “We shall not make it public until the moment comes for you to wear the Crown, which is of course in the case of our mother’s death. It will allow you to marry and produce children in peace and quiet. In fact, we’ve already selected a suitable wife for you…”_


	2. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft sends Sherlock out to meet his candidate wife at the estate of her parents.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My gratitude goes out to Adiba a.k.a Adi_mou, for your continous feedback and support! // Please note that for this story, I have completely reimagined the current Royal family of the UK, starting with the children of George V (more on this in later chapters). Some character names wil coincide with real life Royals, but they are very much different people!

Sherlock Holmes remembered his father with love. Not just because he had found something akin to friendship in him, also because the man seemed to understand that he was not fit for the life of Royalty.

Mycroft might have been Crown Prince, nothing less had been expected from Sherlock growing up. From early childhood, he had become accustomed to constant media attention and having to parade himself in front of ‘the people’, as his mother would say. He had met peers only under strict surveillance from a nanny. Sherlock had learned to walk and talk the way a Prince should.

The older he had gotten, the more he had felt that all of it was utterly suffocating. His father gave safety and air to breathe freely: when he had been scared to pose for photographers, father had taken his hand and kept him by his side. When he had been nervous about meeting other people, his father had given him a warm embrace and soothing words. When Mycroft had told Sherlock he was thick, their father had assured him he wasn’t. When Sherlock decided to pursue a degree in Chemistry and focus on science, his father had encouraged him every step of the way.

And yet he would ask him to abandon his comfort and privacy to become King.

Had it not been for the love and respect he harboured his dead father, he would have left Mycroft to find some other solution – but he had not, and it had led him to his current position.

Some thirty minutes ago, he had arrived at the estate of Sir Michael Hooper, Earl of Huntingdon, and his wife Lady Margaret James, Countess of Mar. He had been ushered into the library of the house by their butler, who had informed him they had not yet returned from their daily walk. The man politely asked Sherlock to wait patiently; he could make himself comfortable and tea would be brought in.

 _Patience?_ Sherlock had rolled his eyes. _This is getting more tedious by the minute_. With nothing better to do, he decided to inspect his surroundings. _Spacious, windows on the north side and in the roof thus letting in enough light while facing away from the south, original 19 th century interior. Books categorized by auth- no, subject. Plays and works of comedy in the book shelves closest to the door thus most read ones, followed by tragedy, horror, encyclopaedias, medical journals… _Sherlock stopped pacing and leaned forward to examine the section better. _Medicine and other sciences, mostly pathology and histopathology._ He straightened his back again. _Must be_ hers.

Sherlock’s thoughts drifted back the reason for his visiting the Earl and Countess: their youngest daughter. Margaret Hooper, 30 years of age. Degree in Medicine, specialised in pathology and working in that particular field. Both parents of noble birth, _very_ respectable upbringing; she was a near flawless candidate. “The choice of wife is completely your own, this woman is a mere… _suggestion_ from us, as we suspect you might need a little help in the area of love.” Mycroft had assured him.

Help. With _love_. Sherlock had wanted to kick Mycroft for the implications of those words. No, he had not much experience with romantic relationships – much too tiring, and he had especially shunned them in recent years. Infatuations? Lust and sex? His frequent drug use during University had lifted any inhibitations in that area and he experimented. He wasn’t a _virgin_ – if needed, he would find himself a perfectly good wife. No support needed whatsoever.

Of course, if she was tolerable enough, Sherlock would take Margaret. Her being a pathologist was definitely a plus point: such a connection always came in handy when solving crimes. She probably also wouldn’t have any issues with his apartment – naturally he wouldn’t give up his flat in Baker Street – doubling as a personal laboratory. She could always assist while there…

Sherlock’s contemplations were cut short when the butler re-entered the library. “The Earl and Countess are ready for you. Please follow me.” They crossed to hall to the other wing of the house, eventually coming to another spacious room. The butler signalled him to wait outside, then opened the doors and announced his entrance.

“His Royal Highness, Prince William.”

Sherlock flinched at the use of his title and first name – it had been quite some time since he’d been last referred to as such and he had almost forgotten how much he hated it. It was a testament to his heritage, his family, the duties that had been forced upon him. Sherlock didn’t respond well to rules and pressure and expectations from people he did not have the slightest desire to please. By the time he entered university, he chose to go by his second name. He would live his life through his _own_ choices.

The Earl and Countess bowed in respect when he entered the room. They invited Sherlock to sit on a sofa in the middle of the room; they turned to sit in chairs opposite him. “Your Highness, it is truly a pleasure and an honour to welcome you to our estate.”, the Earl beamed. “Our sincerest apologies for keeping you waiting. My wife and I frequently go out to inspect the grounds surrounding our house and we encountered some issues with the cattle we keep on the southern plots.”

Sherlock nodded curtly in agreement. “You are excused, but I do wish to get down to business immediately. I believe my brother has sent word as to my motivations for coming here?”

“He has. You are looking for a wife and wish to become acquainted with our youngest daughter, Margaret? ” A smile had grown on the face of the Countess’ as she spoke, and both she and her husband were now looking at him expectantly. Sherlock supressed the need to roll his eyes. _Good God, even Mother wasn’t this excited at the prospect of me getting married._ “I am.”

“I can assure you, she would be _the_ perfect wife for you.” the Earl sang. “Margaret is good natured, helpful and very kind. She’s a very sweet and compliant girl, I’m sure she would do anything asked of her in the role of wife.” “Your late father, God rest his soul, was a good friend of ours and he has stayed with his a number of times over the past twenty years. He would often comment on how Margaret was such a warm young lady.” The Countess chimed in, clasping her hands together.

The two seemed quite excited at the prospect of this union for their youngest child – _Of course, who wouldn’t see huge advantages in marrying into the Royal family_? Sherlock mused. Yet, something about their attitudes bothered him and he couldn’t still his sharp tongue.

“While I’m sure your words are no exaggeration, you will understand that I shall judge her character by _my own_ standards.”

Their happy expressions crumbled at the tone of Sherlock’s voice. “Of course, naturally. We didn’t mean to be presumptuous.”, gulped the Earl. “She is currently staying with us and we could introduce her today if you so wish?”

Before he had a chance to answer, the doors of the room flew open and a raggedy looking young women stepped in. “Mother, for God’s sake could you stop-”

_Brown hair, big eyes, button nose. Petite form. Not unpleasant looking, not conventionally attractive either. Equestrian wear, also spends considerate time one on one with the animals considering stains. Animal lover._

She froze when noticing her parents had company. She quickly withdrew, stammering apologies.

_Clumsy and inarticulate. Good thing I don’t plan to spend a lot of time conversing._

Sherlock looked back to the Countess when he heard her sigh deeply. “Margaret really has a way of announcing herself on cue. Please excuse her interruption.”

“It’s quite alright. Is she always like this?”

The Earl gave a nervous smile. “Margaret can be a bit impulsive. And short sighted, I’m afraid. She doesn’t always control the things she says. Given her line of work, she doesn’t exactly get much practice in that area.”

“She is a pathologist, I’ve heard?”

“That is her field of expertise, yes. When she went to study Medicine, we were so proud of her, but a little daunted that she would choose pathology as her specialisation. ” The Countess made a face as if talking about something disgusting. “Margaret has always been a bit out of the ordinary. Please don’t pay too much mind to it.”

Sherlock smiled cynically. “It’s not an issue.” _If there is anyone I’m not going to pay much mind, it’s the two of you._

 

* * *

By the time the company had ended their conversation, it was nearing dinner time. Sherlock was invited to stay, and it was suggested he could spend the rest of the evening in Margaret’s company after that. He accepted through grit teeth, deciding it a pain he could not skip.

When dinner was ready to be served, Sherlock and Margaret were formally introduced. She swiftly shook his hand, her eyes downcast and a blush creeping up from her neck: it was clear she was still embarrassed by her actions that afternoon. He escorted her to the table and took the seat next to her.

The next hour and a half Sherlock spent in self-hypnosis. He had adapted this technique during childhood, when he had been forced to sit through tedious formal outings. All he had to do was visualise a situation, problem or word: then, he would continuously repeat it mentally to slip into a relaxed yet occupied state. The Earl and Countess had no shortage of anecdotes or stories to entertain their guest, but Sherlock simply did not find them valuable. He shut himself off, smiling or laughing along every now and then to appease his hosts.

Margaret didn’t seem to fair well either. Every now and then, he would glance at her and she seemed just as bored. When her body spoke of interest, it was when he spotted her studying him out of the corner of his eye. Sherlock smirked at it: he was definitely vain about his looks, and enjoyed that she seemed to be impressed.

The company had barely finished desert when the Countess spoke.

“Margaret?” She had been playing with her bracelet and looked up to meet her mother’s eyes. “Would you mind showing our guest around the stables? His Highness mentioned this afternoon how he’d very much like to see our horses.” The look in the Countess’ eyes made clear it was not a request, rather a demand.

“Of course, yes, sure, I’ll just-” Margaret stammered. She glanced towards Sherlock. “If you would follow me.” They walked to the hall, and after their coats were brought she led him outside. “The stables are on the other end of our lands,” she muttered. “Peace and quiet for the animals, you see. I’m happy the weather’s still nice, else we would have been frozen by the time we got there.”

They walked in silence for some minutes. It seemed to Sherlock that she wanted to say something – she would cast glances in his way and the expression on her face spoke of an internal struggle, as if she wasn’t quite sure _what_ to say. Eventually, she got hold of her tongue again. “Your Highness, I wish to convey my condolences over the death of your father. I remember him visiting my parents a lot when I was younger and he was such a lovely man. I was sad to hear he had passed.”

Her choice of subject surprised Sherlock – only he did not have need to spend many words on it. “Thank you. ”

“I think I would find it incredibly difficult to be without one of my parents.”

 _Is she_ really _going there?_

“Considering your behaviour at the table just now, I’d say you would be very comfortable without them.” Margaret frowned at his words. Used to having to give an explanation to his observations, Sherlock went on. “You looked incredibly bored. As the dining room is also filled with pictures of the Earl and Countess and portraits of your siblings, but hardly any of you, I’d say there is quite a distance between you.”

Margaret let out a nervous laugh. “It’s nothing like that, really. I mean, my mother and father and I aren’t the best of friends, but they are still my parents. We are just very different people you see? We don’t always see eye to eye and they’re not very fond of the direction I’m taking my life in, but if I were to lose them I’d be upset. They did raise and shelter me after all.” She took a breath and continued. “Normally, I don’t stay with them for these sorts of extended visits but I’m currently relocating to London and I figured it might be nice to see them for a bit before I move. I don’t think I’ll see them much when I’m there. And I really do love spending time with all the horses.”

 _God, do you always give such long answers?_ Sherlock pondered to himself.

“Your Father said you are to start a new job soon?” It seemed he had tapped in on a good subject, because any shyness disappeared from her eyes and made way for a proud gleam and childlike giddiness.

“I am. Recently hired as assistant to the head of the Pathology department at St. Bart’s Hospital in London. I got my medical degree in Birmingham and I did my internships there, plus a short fellowship, and I liked it quite a bit but this the job I’ve been aspiring to all this time. I’m very excited.”

 _St. Bart’s? Mycroft, you sly fox_. Sherlock noted to give his brother hell for this.

“I suppose we shall see more of each other in the future then, because I am a regular at the laboratory’s there.”

Margaret looked at him with a smile. “Truly? You work there too? I never would have thought.” “Is it so odd to imagine me there?” “No no no, it’s just that – considering Your Highness is of Royal blood, I guessed you would just be… ” She seemed unsure whether to speak her thoughts any further, “part of the family business?”

Sherlock squinted his eyes at her: “Family business?” For the third time that day, he succeeded in making her blush. “I don’t know, just, royal activities? Riding horses and hunting and being patron of some sort of charity? I imagined Your Highness to be rich enough not to have to work a regular job.”

“I think you have mistaken me for my brother there.”, Sherlock snorted. He would never admit it, but behind the anger such assumptions aroused in him was a bruised ego. “ _I_ live a very active life. I have a degree in Chemistry, written a number of books and I work for Scotland Yard.”

“Scotland Yard? You keep surprising me. I always thought members of the Royal family were forbidden by law to uphold such positions in society! What sort of work do you do?” Margaret was intrigued. The Prince was fit, very much so, and he was _intelligent_ – she had never met anyone with a mind as sharp as his. He seemed as arrogant as one would expect from a royal, yet he didn’t like to identify with the life style. Trash tabloids were a guilty pleasure of Margaret’s, and in recent years she had often seen his parents and older brother George in it – _he_ had been notably absent. She always thought he had been enjoying his money and living large without wanting much press.

“Consulting detective”. There was that self –satisfied tone again. “When the regular workforce at Scotland Yard has trouble solving a crime, they come to me. They can wrap up a case pretty quickly after that.”

“And that is also why you use the facilities at St. Bart’s? To solve crime? Sounds very exciting.” Sherlock didn’t get compliments on his life’s choices often, and he felt somewhat estranged by her words.

He didn’t get a chance to dwell on it long, as they had finally reached the stables. It was nearing nine o’clock in the evening, but the sun was brightly shining its final rays of the day and no artificial lighting was needed. Margaret opened the outer doors and let Sherlock in. Then, she moved towards a box stall at the end of the building.

“I figured I might start with the best horse we have, if I may say so myself. This,” she said as she unlocked the top of the door, “is Princess In Shining Armour.” The horse draped it’s head over the door and gently pushed her nose into Margaret’s shoulder. She smiled brightly and gently caressed the horse’s mane. Sherlock couldn’t help but feel somewhat touched at the sight of love between the animal and its owner.

“She’s mine, a Christmas gift when she was just a baby. Four years old and in excellent condition, although I have the stable master to thank for that. In recent times, I haven’t been able to ride or tend to her as often as I like with my work keeping me rather busy.” Sadness was apparent in Margaret’s voice.

She turned back to Sherlock. “Do you ride often, Your Highness?” “Not really. I did when I was a child, but I never enjoyed it much. I do enjoy the company of horses, extremely majestic creatures.” He stepped forward and also brushed his hands over the animal’s head.

A soft neigh announced the presence of someone else.  Margaret giggled: “I think the other inhabitant of this box stall also wants some attention.” She opened the bottom of the door and a foal appeared next to the bigger horse. “My father had Princess’ mate with his top racing horses, and this is the result.” She crouched down and called the animal over. “Almost four weeks old. I was lucky to be here the weekend she was born and it was such an awe inspiring thing. I spend so much time around dead people, it was quite amazing to for once be witness to what happens at the start of a life.”

Suddenly, the foal pushed past her and curiously sniffed Sherlock’s trousers and hands. “Headstrong creature huh?”

Margaret stood up again. “She definitely is. You should see her when she’s out in the field. She’s always wandering off and her mother’s usually chasing after her, not the other way around.”

“Does she have a name?” Sherlock stroked the foal’s head. The animal had a beautiful, shiny deep black fur with curious eyes. He liked it.

“Not yet. My father’s given me the honour to pick one, but I think it’s difficult. A name always comes with baggage, it puts a certain stamp on someone, I think. I keep wondering, “If I pick this name, would she be happy with it? Would she think it fitting to her personality?” She’s an animal, but you understand. Myself, I was named Margaret after my mother – but I’m nothing like her and I don’t wish to be. My grandmother always called me Molly as a nickname and I think that fits me a lot better. I’ve made sure all my friends and colleagues know me by that name and it really works for me.”

The words stirred something inside of Sherlock’s heart: he recognized the sentiment on a very personal level, as he felt exactly the same about his own official titles. Molly didn’t know it yet, but in this moment a first tiny bit of fondness for her came to be in his mind.

“I think you have a point there.” He murmured. Then he felt the foal gently nibble at one of his fingers. “Should you be doing that?” Sherlock laughed, an honest smile on his face. “Oh! You little devil. I can’t have you be known as the one who bit a finger off of a Royal Prince!” Molly shooed the foal back into the box stall.

“Jolly Roger.”

She looked at Sherlock in surprise. “Sorry?”

“I think you should name her Jolly Roger. Seems fitting, considering the animal’s mischievous and straight forward nature.” Molly thought about it for a second, then giggled. “Ah, I understand. I would be happy to name her in your honour, Your Highness.” She made her way to the next box stall, but Sherlock cut her short.

“I would like for you to drop the formalities. If you allow me to call you Molly, I would prefer if you call me Sherlock.”

“Sherlock?” Amusement tugged at the corners of her lips.

“I have been baptised a number of names. William Sherlock Scott James, family name Holmes. I too have chosen a name for myself.” He felt weird sharing this with anyone, but it seemed she would understand.

“I think it’s a lovely name and I wouldn’t mind calling you that. It’s very nice to meet you, Sherlock Holmes.” She held out her hand, and he moved to shake it.

“It’s a joy to meet you too, Molly Hooper.”

 _P_ _erhaps_ , Sherlock wondered as they looked at one another, _this journey will be less torturous than I thought._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and I'll meet you again next week for the following chapter!


	3. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Molly cross paths for the first time after the events of chapter 2. They grow friendly with each other over the next year and a half, but aren't far from becoming lovers either. Sherlock futher struggles with the prospect of becoming King.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Adi for being my loyal beta, and to anyone who has left a comment or kudos since this started! It's a great encouragement :)

Sherlock and Molly crossed paths again a few weeks later – as they both had expected, at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital.

It was nearing midnight on a working day, and he was the only one present at the lab. Sherlock and his partner in crime, John Watson, had been in hot pursuit of a vicious serial killer for a few days now. The man was smart, a lot more than your typical killer, and he had succeeded in keeping them off of his trail. Sherlock was certain vital clues to catching the crook were in unusual dirt specimens he had found on the last victim – but nothing was coming up.

He had spent the past hours in the St. Bart’s laboratory checking the samples over and over under a microscope, and then thoroughly checking the test results again and again. John had left some time ago to meet his girlfriend Mary for dinner and Sherlock was alone.

 _There is something in there; there_ must _be something in the samples. What am I missing? What am I not seeing? Think. THINK!_

Sherlock would often say he needed challenges like this to keep his mind fresh and occupied – but that did not mean he took them in stride. He was getting more and more frustrated at the lack of results and as John would testify, he was best left alone when in such a mood. The lack of progress was infuriating. His hands balled up into fists and he let out a loud angry grunt.

Some moments later, he heard the lab door open softly.

_The late shift. I can’t have them meddling right now._

“Excuse me sir? The laboratory is closed at this hour and you are certainly not supposed to use our equipment without staff supervision, do you have special dispensation to be he- Sherlock? It’s you!”

_O_ _h God._

He whipped around on his chair to see his hearing had not failed. Standing next to him was Molly Hooper: in contrast with their previous nightly outing—she was not wearing makeup and her hair had been swept back in a ponytail. She had gotten rid of her dress, and had teamed up a mandatory lab coat with frumpy, formal trousers and a top. She smiled brightly.

“Miss Hooper, how pleasant to see you again. Yes, I do have clearance to be here at this hour without anyone else, as I am sure your boss has mentioned. Quite busy as you can see, so if you could leave me to it.” He said the words quickly, not willing to engage in any sort of chit chat with her at that moment.

She eyed him and his work with curiosity, and continued speaking as if she had not heard his final sentence. “I was wondering when we’d run into each other! I heard a noise and figured I’d best check it out; we’ve had a number of burglars in here recently. Mostly junkies looking for needles and valuables to steal. How have you been? I’ve been here for almost four weeks now and it’s so nice, I’m really happy. The work is so interesting!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Oh he _really_ did not want to listen to her talk nineteen to the dozen right now. “I would prefer if we do this another time, I have a crime so solve and no need for useless chatter.” He turned back to his work and further ignored her.

“Oh. _Oh_ , sure, I’m really sorry to have asked your attention, I’ll just… go and just- I’ll be back there if you need me.” Molly was shocked by the harshness of his voice and slowly made her way out of the lab.

In some ways, she could have seen this coming: after all, Sherlock was infamous amongst her co-workers. In the short month that she had been at St. Bart’s, they had told countless stories of his rudeness, crazy dedication to work and odd behaviour. Molly had been able to place the arrogance, but had felt calling him a ‘freak’ was too much. She had only met Sherlock once before, but he had been kind in his own way, she guessed. And they had had fun, no doubt.

She was still pondering his behaviour when the lab door flew open again. Sherlock came at her with wide eyes, a content smile playing at his lips. “It seems you interrupting my work made me see things clearly again. Where’s your mobile phone?”

Molly fumbled to get it out of her lab coat. He snatched it from her hands and quickly entered something. “Here’s my number.” Her eyes went wide with shock. He was giving _her_ his _number?!_ “I have some tests running, do text me when the results come in. Lives depend on it.” With that, he smoothly put on his coat and rapidly disappeared.

She stood frozen to the ground, her eyes trained on the door he had gone through. “He’s got tests running.” Molly sighed. “At least I can always dream of a man that fit showing interest in me.” She pushed the incident out of her mind and went back to work. After finishing her nightshift, she went straight home to get much deserved sleep.

That afternoon, she woke up to the beeping of her phone:

_Test results were conclusive, criminal has been apprehended. My behaviour tonight was not because of you, don’t take it personal. – SH_

Molly smiled. Good to know he was still the man she’d gotten to know all those weeks ago.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock worked with Molly often over the next few months. Where John was of great help in the field, she did wonders in the lab: she was precise, well trained in her field and would cater to his needs. She was there when he needed her.

He trusted her, no questions asked.

One morning, the idea of marriage to her came back to the forefront of his mind. He hadn’t forgotten about it all together. ‘Procrastinating’ would be a better term for how Sherlock had been handling the topic, and he could do so easily. Surprisingly, neither Mycroft nor their Mother bullied him about it. All in all rather suspicious, as they had always _loved_ to interfere with his life, but he decided not to question it. The less they spoke about it (‘it’ being his Kingship and thus marriage) the better.

Then there was the bit about Molly not knowing. For the sake of Royal privacy, her parents had not been informed he would become King in a few years – they did of course know he was looking to marry. They had asked him not to tell they knew of his plans.

“We’ve always feared Molly would end up alone. We’ve tried setting her up before, but she never appreciated it. Please don’t mention we know about this to her, I think she’ll stop speaking to us.” the Duchess had entrusted him when he left the Hooper estate all those months ago. Their blatant interfering had disgusted him all day – but he did agree it would be best to leave Molly in the dark.

He didn’t bother to ponder why, but the idea of marrying a woman only interested in his status was horrid. No, best to leave that part out. He wasn’t going to be King for a good number of years.

Sherlock had been inspecting a corpse used for an experiment on the forming of bruises after death. Molly had been looking on, and stopped him halfway through his examinations.

“Uhm, Sherlock? I was wondering, would you like to have coffee?”

Coffee? He had been busy all morning and had not had any. Sure.

“Black, two sugars. I’ll still be here when you get back.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her face drop. She looked… disappointed. Why was she disappointed? She had asked if he wanted coffee hadn’t she? He hadn’t been rude right? Then why would she-

 _Unless_ she meant ‘Would you like to go have coffee with me and leave the lab.’

He stood up straight. “I was distracted by Mr. Hayman here. You mean, you’d like to have coffee together?”

“Yes. You, me, a little café. But we can always go to the lunchroom here if you’d like.” Her confidence had returned and she seemed glad he understood her intentions.

“Naturally you’ll come by my flat. Much more quiet and the drinks are free. You get off at two? Meet me at three. You know where I live.”

Molly did, in fact, know where he lived. On a number of occasions, she had personally delivered body parts to his apartment. 221B Baker Street was cluttered but cosy and she liked it. Sherlock had usually shown her out fairly quick though, so this would be the first time she’d get to spend some more time there. John Watson, whom she had become friends with via Sherlock, had told her a good few anecdotes on how his flatmate liked to behave at home. He needed to vent his frustrations every now and then, and as Molly more or less knew what he went through, made for bonding material.

And, of course, she wanted to spent time with Sherlock outside of work. “I’ll be there.” She gave him a shy smile as he returned to looking at Mr. Hayman.

 

* * *

 

It was almost three o’clock when Molly arrived at Baker Street. She was let in by Mrs. Hudson, who signalled her to go upstairs and then quickly disappeared back into her kitchen.

When reaching the top of the stairs, Molly waited a moment. She had been here, in Sherlock’s company so often before: but never like this – this felt almost like a date. Pretty sure it was. She felt excited, but a bit nervous. He had never let anything on about previous relationships or done anything that she thought was romantic. Or something obviously loving, for that matter. No, Sherlock Holmes was rather cool to most things in life, Molly had learned.

She straightened out her clothes and smoothed her hair back. _Most of this world is ruled by the bold and brave_ , her father had always reminded her. If Molly wanted love from Sherlock, this was her chance to get it started.

She lifted her hand to knock on the door when it was suddenly wrenched open. Sherlock appeared; a small smile on his face. “Good afternoon Molly. Are you alright? I heard you come up the stairs but you didn’t come in right away?”

She swallowed hard. _I am a confident woman. I’m in control of my life. Then_ why _does he have a way of always catching me off guard?_ “I was just, uhm, checking to make sure I looked alright.” she said with a nervous giggle.

“Don’t waste your time on nonsense like that.” He walked back to sit in his favourite settee, Molly trailing behind him. “Besides, I saw you this morning already didn’t I? I’ve seen you a lot before in fact. ”

_A lot but still not enough for my liking. Still certain layers to be removed._

Molly could feel her cheeks burning up. In private, or in the lab when he wasn’t paying attention to her, she liked admiring his looks. Sherlock was fit, like, _really_ fucking fit. Molly had been attracted to him since day one, and the feeling had only grown when she got to know him as a person too. As any person with such feelings would, she fantasised about what he looked like naked (not that she needed much with suits tailored to a perfect degree). She had dreamed of touching him; had masturbated to the thought of them having sex (and that had been _pretty_ amazing).

Oh, if he was agreeable she was definitely going to shag him. Many times preferably.

Now, however, was not to time to be entertaining herself with such thoughts. She removed her coat and sat down in what was usually John’s seat.

“Mrs. Hudson!” Sherlock yelled downstairs. The cracking of stairs signalled the older woman was coming up, and she entered the room with a tray of tea and biscuits. She placed it in front of them.

“How lovely it is to have you here Molly. Sherlock always lets you out so soon, I never get a proper chance to see you! You should come round more often.” She clasped her hands to her chest, delighted about seeing Molly. While Mrs. Hudson dearly loved her two tenants, she sometimes felt a bit alone at being the only women in the apartment. “I shall let you two to it then.” she said with a cheeky wink.

Molly’s eyes followed the woman leave, then turned back to see Sherlock had been watching her all along. “Should she be running around as your butler? She mentioned hip problems the last time we spoke, in that light I don’t think walking stairs will do her good.” Sherlock waved his hands dismissively. “She volunteers for it. Enjoys doing it, actually. Some tea?” He filled two cups and handed one to her. “Anything interesting happen after I left the lab this morning?”

“Not really. We had two victims from a car crash come in, but their injuries were pretty standard so not much I can report on that.” Sherlock knew very well nothing interesting had transpired – if it had, Molly would’ve called him as they agreed upon some months ago. Still, formality told him to ask.

“What have you been up to?”

Sherlock had enough to tell her on that. He comfortably leaned back and crossed his legs, preparing for his talk. “Continued my study of human behaviour in public places. Visited a number of grocery stores in the east part of the city. It’s quite fascinating to see how people act in public when they think no one is watching.” He paused to think on the topic. “The more crowded a public space, the more people will feel a sense of anonymity it seems and the more they will feel at ease to do as they like. Rather fascinating, although you would probably never want to be anything from those stores again. I stand by my thesis that hygiene is mere smoke and mirrors, nothing that actually exists.”

“Good thing I work a job where I’m constantly washing my hands then.” Molly laughed. “I’m elbows deep in dead people most days, I can handle a little gore you know.”

“I’ve never doubted you for a minute.” Sherlock retorted.

Molly raised her eyebrows in mock surprise: “Truly? I have the blessing of a Prince of England, how great to know.” “Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland too, mind you. I should probably disclaim that I can’t perform any actual divine miracles, although my above average intellect may make my skills seem like that to commoners.” He took a sip of his tea, a boyish gleam of amusement in his eyes. Molly threw her head back and laughed loudly.

It was still a strange feeling to Sherlock, to be so at ease with someone else. Seldom had he made a real friend, but now he had found two in the past year and a half: John ánd Molly. Between him and them there was definitely an understanding, a sort of closeness if you like. He had always presented himself as a lone genius – and while he genuinely did like to be by himself, a proper companion gave him just as much joy and excitement.

Not that he’d admit that to anyone of course. Barely to himself.

“You’ve really left it behind haven’t you?” Molly’s eyes were soft, looking at him with a curious expression.

“What?”

“Being Prince. I mean, you told me before that you’ve chosen a different life and that you’re not like your family, but I never thought that you could actually shake it off. I always imagined being Royalty was a bit like being cursed, having a force constantly influencing your life and coming to bite you in the end.”

A curse – exactly how Sherlock had experienced his worldly status all these years. And little did she know, it had already come back to ruin him.

He leaned forward, filling their tea cups for a second round. He kept his eyes downcast, preventing her from seeing any emotion in them. “Let’s just say that my family and I mutually agreed that it would be better if go my own way.”

“Oh.” Molly replied. “So they are completely fine with you being ex-Prince?”

“I’m still Prince. They have unofficially discharged me of my duties.” Sherlock did not enjoy discussing his family with others. This particular topic he avoided like the plague.

“But you still see them regularly?” Molly didn’t intend to meddle with Sherlock’s private life, but his situation had always made her curious. She never thought someone born to such status could easily leave it behind. Duty and family honour and all that. Perhaps her ideas of princely life had been seriously damaged by watching too much TV – but she would never know if she didn’t ask.

One of the things he appreciated about Molly was her thoroughness and determination. But _why_ did she have to use it for digging into the most personal parts of his life?

Well, if she wanted to know, she could have it.

Sherlock pinned her back into her chair with his eyes, their expression warning her that she was going into enemy territory. “Since you are so adamant about my life as a Prince, I will do you a favour and resolve your curiosity. My childhood was sheer horror. I had to show myself off to the public as though I was part of a traveling circus, while behind the scenes my every move and relationship was monitored and restricted. As I’ve always been high functioning, my brain needed a very particular sort of intellectual nourishment but I could never find any in that environment. Things did not improve after I entered University, so I developed an extensive habit of drug use. The narcotics did wonders for slowing my mind down and giving me relief from the dread that was my life. But given that heroine is very much outlawed, I eventually found myself in police custody. As you can imagine, my mother and father had very good reason to keep me out of the media with that. I went to rehab, went back to University to get both of my degrees in Chemistry and spent the last decade solving crimes.”

He was used to speaking at such a fast pace, but his lungs nevertheless burned for some oxygen. He took in a deep breath.

Molly stared at him with her mouth hanging open in shock. It had not been her intention to push Sherlock’s buttons, or make him lash out like a trapped animal. His words had been filled with anger, but it was the sadness of the things he described that made her feel for him.

“Sorry. Guess I still need to learn not to be nosy. ”Molly stammered.

“It’s fine. But I would prefer to move on now.” Sherlock’s anger wasn’t so much directed at her. When he spoke about his younger years, memories of days spent unhappy – in sadness and loneliness – came to mind. He had yet to forgive for having been forced into such a life.

The atmosphere had changed, Molly could feel it in her bones.

_Bloody hell, bang up job you! Why am I so good at getting his attention for the wrong things? Must stop mucking up dates._

Molly was a little too good at self-punishment, but her thoughts would run wild at moments like this. Where was a hole she could crawl in and die?

“I can see what you’re thinking and you should stop. My anger isn’t about you and I shouldn’t have acted like I was.” Sherlock doubted if he had ever known someone who’s emotions and thoughts were so clear. He could plainly see that he had hurt Molly with his tirade and he didn’t like it. He didn’t enjoy that she punished herself for it either.

What had his Father always done when he was upset as a child?

Physical comfort, yes that was it.

Sherlock leaned forward for a moment to gently brush her hands with his right one, clasped together anxiously in her lap.

Molly’s eyes went wide with shock at the gesture.

 _He’s touching me. Oh my god he’s_ touching _me.Sherlock Holmes is trying to make me feel better._

Later that day, in the privacy of her own bedroom, she would think back on this and appreciate it whole heartedly. But right now, in her embarrassment, she couldn’t take it.

She stood up and fumbled to put her jacket on. “Again, I’m really sorry. I have to go.”

Sherlock had read her emotions easily a moment ago, but he didn’t quite understand what was going through her head right now. He figured it was best to let her do, though. He walked along down the stairs, to let her out the front door.

Before opening it, he spoke softly to her: “I think we can get along much better than what just transpired. I think we should meet up again another time.”

“It ended pretty bad didn’t it?” She smiled stiffly. “I’d very much like to go out again.”

“Same time next week?”

She nodded her agreement. It was what she then did that rendered Sherlock speechless: she stood up on her tippy toes and placed a light kiss on his left cheek. “You’re a much nicer guy than you give yourself credit for, you know.” She smiled again, much more relaxed this time. “Have a good day, I’ll see you at the lab.”

She stepped out of the house. Sherlock stood there a little while longer, trying to understand what he had done to deserve such words.

 

* * *

 

Their second meeting was more of a success, and Sherlock and Molly fell into somewhat of a routine after it. They would see each other at the lab to work side by side; then, they’d meet up after hours (usually at Sherlock’s place) to be together more.

He told her about cases, past and ongoing. He lent her books from his extensive collection: she obviously enjoyed them so why not help her knowledge grow? She let him crash on her sofa for hours on end when Sherlock was out of a case and John busy with his day job. She let him rant about his frustrations because she thought he looked cute when flustered (although she’d never admit that to him).

Molly wouldn’t say they were going beyond a level of friendship – a total lack of romance on his side told her he wasn’t interested in _that_ way. Besides, the lengthy discussion they’d have on science and crime solving where basically an extension of their lab work right?

Sherlock didn’t have love on his mind either – mostly because he didn’t quite think about anything like ‘dating’. He simply liked having her around when he was not on the job, so why not ask her over?

When Christmas came around in 2011, they were definitely good friends.

For the holidays that year, Mrs. Hudson had decided to organise a little get together. Sherlock would be there of course, along with John and his girlfriend Mary. She also invited the recently divorced Scotland Yard detective Lestrade and Molly (both regulars at the flat due to their relations with the consulting detective).

Sherlock had never liked this part of the year. As a child, it meant the usual Royal traditions of photography sessions in the snow and tedious long dinners with extended family. This time around, it was a case spoiling his mood. Some weeks before, Mycroft had asked him to retrieve compromising photographs of a close relative from a woman named Irene Adler. Not only had he been unable to do so thus far, she had taken a personal interest in him and enjoyed playing games via text messages and sudden meetings.

He couldn’t deny he was intrigued as well – but her behaviour confused and frustrated Sherlock and he was coming to the end of his patience.

Mrs. Hudson and her guests seemed to have a lovely time: Sherlock spent most of the party brooding in his favourite chair. Every now and again he’d pick up his violin to angrily play a Christmas tune. He refused to talk to anyone – he couldn’t bear any of their frivolity right now. Not even John’s fiery glares could bother him.

Eventually he’d bolted to his bedroom and it was there he noticed he was still clutching the little wrapped box Molly had given him.

Ah, yes, _Molly_. Of course he’d taken notice of her. She had worn the same dress on the day they met. Her hair hung lose once more and the make-up had returned too. She had arrived with a bag of gifts. She’d come to him first: with a shy smile, she’d handed him the small box. “Just a little something. Figured you might have use for it.” It had been wrapped neatly, while the others seemed to have been done in a rush.

He tore the paper off and a smile formed on his face, his earlier rage completely forgotten.

A bottle of his favourite cologne. Had he not complained to her some time ago that the brand was discontinued and that he had found no good replacement? She must have gone through quite some trouble to find it, most likely via some obscure website.

Her intensions were perfectly deducible: this was not a gift between friends, this was a present for a romantic interest.

Molly _liked_ him. Not just as a friend, but in a romantic way. Sherlock replayed the past months in his mind and he couldn’t deny, it had always been there. In her bright eyes, her staring when she thought he wasn’t watching, in her tolerance of his bad traits and her unwavering support.

He had been ignoring it all this time… He guessed because her love and acceptance was more than he could have hoped for. In the past fifteen years, most people he’d met had been dull and told him to ‘bugger off’ sooner or later.

But not her.

Not Molly Hooper.

A loud moan signalled to Sherlock that Irene had sent another message. Time to get back to solving that little puzzle: destructing his own feelings would have to wait a bit longer.

 

* * *

 

Or maybe _a lot_ longer. It wasn’t until the spring following that Christmas that things changed for Sherlock was spurred into action.

It was a late Thursday afternoon and John had just returned to 221B from his regular job. He had agreed to help Sherlock go over evidence from a current case. When he entered the flat, he found his friend perched in his chair. John wanted to take the seat opposite him, but found it buried in books.

“Could you do me a favour and clean up a bit before I come round? I’ve had a long day and I would _really_ like to sit without having to dig my chair out.”

No response from his flatmate. He removed the last book and plopped down.

“Sherlock?”

“SHERLOCK.” John cried out, throwing one of the books in Sherlock’s direction, hitting him right in the stomach. It worked, as the man came back to life. His eyes darted around, dazed, then locked with John’s. A smile appeared on his face. “Ah, good afternoon John!”

The blonde man tilted his head in curiosity. “What has you so occupied?”

“Contemplating marriage.”

John was used to being oblivious to the workings of his friends mind, but this was about as random is it could get.  “Jesus Christ mate. Marriage?! To who?”

A smug smile appeared on Sherlock’s face. “Molly Hooper.”

“I’m sorry, Molly? You two are dating?” John’s confusion grew by the second.

“We’re not.”

He stared at Sherlock, his brow furrowed. He tried to make sense of what he’d just heard.

“You’ve completely lost me.”

Sherlock sat up straight in agitation. It was all so clear in his mind and he didn’t like explaining his motives. “Girlfriend, boyfriend, dating, marriage, it’s all boils down to the exact same thing. Why bother selling myself to a woman that I know already is in love with me? She likes me, I like her, we get along great, marriage is a logical conclusion.” He threw his hands in the air in exasperation.

“I understand this all sounds very logically in your mind, but most people look at it quite differently. If you were to propose to Molly without any sort of warning, I’m fairly certain she would be scared to death.”

Sherlock studied his trusted partner in crime. “Not good?”

“Definitely not good. Look,” John leaned over, his elbows resting on his knees, “regular folks see dating and marriage as two different relationships stages and for good reason because they are. I’m fairly sure Molly sees it in that light too. If you wish to be with her, start with that. Tell her that you’d like a romantic relationship. And for God’s sake, tell her gently.”

“What does ‘gently’ constitute?” The tables had turned: Sherlock was now the confused one.

“Something along the lines of ‘Hello Molly, I’m interested in you as a person and I would like to take you out sometime. Let’s be together.’ Ask her to take you as a boyfriend if you must. If she says yes, then you can think of bringing marriage up again.But only after a few months. Years preferably. ”

Sherlock pursed his lips. “As I have Molly’s best interest at heart, I shall take you upon your word.”

John leaned back and started rummaging around the side of his chair to find that mornings newspaper. “Please do. If you give her a heart attack I’ll need to fight you.” He jokingly remarked. He opened up his paper and started scanning the articles. Sherlock had gotten up walk around in the kitchen.

“I never thought you one for relationships, but if you are going to be with someone I can’t say I’m surprised it’s her.” John murmured from behind his reading.

Sherlock stopped in his track. “You’re not?” John let out a huff of laughter. “Any fool can see she’s into you. It’s been much harder to guess from your side.” He turned around in his chair. “Answer me something, because I still feel a bit blind sighted by your confessions just now. Do you love her? Truly?”

In the months since Christmas, Sherlock had been asking himself the same thing. He had refused to think about his feelings for Molly in terms of love – love’s a purely biological process after all, chemicals reacting to each other in the brain. But she had cemented herself in his brain, his life, he was comfortable around her and wished her to be beside him when she wasn’t. Sherlock couldn’t imagine a life without her.

“I really dislike the word lo-”

John swiftly cut him off. “No, don’t give me that nonsense. Honestly, I feel weird talking about emotions and I know you do too, but Molly is a good woman and I want to look out for her so I have to ask. Can you give her what she needs in a relationship? Can you give her what she needs from you emotionally?”

Sherlock stopped working and looked his friend in the eye. “Yes, I think I can.”

“Good. Very good. Don’t disappoint her okay?”

“I won’t.” _Not ever. She’s going to have the best life with me._

They both continued their activities. “Does Mycroft know about any of this? If he gives her the same treatment he did me, I’m gonna have a fight with him too. “Punched the Prince of Wales” will look good on my resume, although I’d rather not go to jail. I’d hate for Mary to be dating a criminal.”

A few days after becoming Sherlock’s flatmate, John had been picked up off the street and brought to Mycroft’s private London workspace. The older Holmes, merely looking out for his younger brother as he saw it, had wanted to know more about John’s background and intentions towards Sherlock. When it became clear his brother had not revealed his ‘true’ identity yet, Mycroft had done so for them and asked for privacy by all means.

John had only know Sherlock for a short while, but did not plan on ratting him out in any way. He respected the man too much for that already.

“Molly’s parents were friends of my father, Mycroft’s already met her on a number of occasions. In fact, I think he likes her too.” Obviously, he wasn’t lying there… but Sherlock did not plan on telling John the true reasons for initially meeting Molly. He had also put off telling him about his future ascending the throne, simply because he still resented the oncoming change.

Sherlock would find a way. Eventually.

 

* * *

 

“Well darling, any chance of you bringing us good news regarding your marital status soon?”

Once a month, Sherlock joined his mother and brother at Buckingham Palace for an afternoon filled with tea and discussions on the state of the country. There was a curious twinkle in her eye: it had been quite some time since she last asked about his dating life, but he was certain she knew damn will how things were going in that department.

Sherlock sucked in his annoyance and answered politely: “Everything is well Mother.”

Mycroft cocked an eyebrow at his sibling. “He and Miss Hooper meet very regularly, both at work and outside of it.”

“Always a pleasure to know you still have MI5 agents track my every move.” Sherlock retorted, the sarcasm in his voice unhidden.

The Queen never did like seeing her children fight. “You mustn’t be angry with your brother, sweetheart. It’s all for your own safety.”

Mycroft took a sip from his tea:“And to make sure you don’t land us any more PR disasters.”

“ _George_.” His mother reprimanded sternly, throwing her first born an angry look. As with his younger brother, Mycroft’s public title was different from the name he went by in private. The Queen would normally stick with Sherlock and Mycroft, but preferred using their official titles when they acted in a rather un-princely manner. “Don’t degrade yourselves by acting like children.”

She turned back to Sherlock. “Now, please do tell us a bit more about Margaret. Does she have any particular interests outside of her work?”

He didn’t feel any need to discuss Molly. The more he’d say about her, the more his Mother and Mycroft would taunt him about it. “I would rather not-”

“Are two involved already?” Mycroft shot off towards his sibling, boredom apparent on his face.

  _No_ _t you too!_

It had been two weeks since Sherlock had had his conversation with John about Molly, and the man had been asking that same question every time they had been with her since then.

 _Nope. I am not going along with this_.

Time for his escape plan. Sherlock glanced at his wristwatch dramatically and announced he had to go and meet John for a case related appointment. He kissed his mother goodbye and fled the room.

The Queen felt a wee bit of disappointment at his sudden leave, but couldn’t help to also smile. “I don’t take joy in saying this but – spot on. That says it all. He’s never liked sharing his toys has he?”

Mycroft had come to the same conclusion. “Our plan seems to be unfolding as expected. I foresee a wedding next year.”

“Do you think?” The Queen’s expression was one of hope and expectation. “How lovely that would be. It is times like these that I wish your Father could still be here and witness it. He would have been quite content.”

“Naturally. He’s the one who put all of this in motion, after all.” Mycroft empathised.

Suddenly, his mother’s eyes turned sad. “I wish this could all be over and done with. I really don’t enjoy lying to Sherlock. And if he marries that girl we will have to deceive her too.”

Mycroft took one of her hands and gave a reassuring squeeze. “Don’t fret Mother. By the time we reveal the truth, he will be thankful for it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 4 preview: FLUFF GALORE.


	4. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lovey dovey behaviour and wedding bells.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll keep repeating it, my thanks towards Adiba (for your beta work and leaving cute little fangirly comments on my chapters, I love 'm!) and everyone reading, commenting and kudoing(?)! Second - I went back to University on the 22nd and that means I am now sacrificing most of my time, energy and creativity to my studies. Fast updates are therefore out of the question at this point. It makes me sad too, but it can't be helped. Without much further ado, enjoy!

It was a Sunday morning.

Molly lazily stretched. She didn’t have anywhere to be, so there was no need to leave her bed. She could feel a hand creep up her hip, and rolled over to snuggle closer to Sherlock.

Ah, yes, beautiful wonderful _Sherlock_.

She replayed last night’s events in her head: Molly had come home at six to find him lounging on her settee. “John’s having Mary over and insisted I stay out. It’s no bother if I stay here right?” he had said while keeping his bored eyes trained on some reality TV show. The arrogance in his words had made her stomp off to the bathroom.

Of course she wouldn’t kick him out, and he knew that too.

In recent times, they were quite close to one another. He frequently visited her flat now, and they’d always have fun. Not to mention that they’d become rather touchy-feely with one another. _Ugh_. They were acting like lovers, except they weren’t really.

Molly hated it -  but what she hated more was how she had yet to find the courage to bring up the subject. The topic had stayed in her thoughts for rest of the evening, until her frustration had blown up into full on rage. Sherlock had made some sort of comment on the safety of her locks and how she needed to change them. She had ranted at him to keep his nose out of her business, then locked herself in her bedroom.

She had been sitting on her bed, furiously wiping away oncoming tears, when Sherlock had come in with a soft expression and sat next to her. He had taken her hands in his and spoken the sweetest word she could imagine coming from his mouth.

 _I tend to think that the search for a partner is a cause of great unhappiness to most. And even when they find that love, it will continue to bring misery and pain. I guess I place myself above matters of the heart because I have seen it corrode people I greatly respect, or perhaps it’s a game I don’t understand and therefore opt not to play. But these days, I wonder if I truly stand by these convictions, for I strongly desire to continue seeing your business as my own. In fact, I enjoy conducting myself as your boyfriend. If you would let me, I want to be it in truth_.

Molly heart had swelled at his words. She had beamed her agreement and gathered him in her arms. Oh, how she had longed to do that before: to hold him tight to her and whisper what was in her heart. He had been stiff under her hugs and kisses at first, but soon returned them with the same vigour.

“Darling?” Sherlock planted a firm kiss on her forehead. “I need to go check my phone for a minute.”

She smiled up at him sleepily. “Don’t be too long.” He gently entangled himself from her, then went up to the living room.

 _What a difference a day can really make_ , he mused. Last night, he had not left 221B joyously. While he wished for John and Mary to have some privacy, he didn’t like leaving his living space. Especially not to go stay with Molly. It had been a month she had had confided in John about his marriage plans, but had yet to find a proper way of telling her about it. It caused for insufferable tension.

Molly had been cranky all evening before letting her anger out. If he could “do her a favour and stop acting like her boyfriend since he clearly isn’t” -  the sentence had left him stunned.

He hated the sound of it. It would be best to go explain himself, to make her understand. He silently thanked Molly for bringing their relationship up: this was _the_ moment to talk about it. So, he did. Thank God she agreed.

Sherlock wasn’t quite used to physical affection, so he had frozen under her ministrations. Her softly whispered words – _I love you, please stay, there is no one else for me –_ filled with genuine love brought him back to life.

When Mycroft first told Sherlock he needed to marry, hadn’t he wanted a love in the ice? Something cool and detached? Right now, he couldn’t remember why for the life of him.

He reached into his coat pocket and drew out his mobile phone. As promised, a short message from John was waiting to be read. Sherlock quickly made his way back to Molly, getting in bed and wrapping his arms around her.

“What was so important?” She looked up at him with curious eyes.

“John and Mary. Let’s see…” His eyes flew over the words in the text message. “They’re getting married.” A smile formed on Molly’s face. “He proposed to her last night? My God you should have mentioned that’s why you were staying over!”

Sherlock leaned back to place the phone on her night stand. “John asked me to keep quiet about it.” He buried his face in her hair and pressed closer. He didn’t like the idea of John getting married. He wished him happiness, but feared that it would inevitably change their partnership – and _that_ Sherlock couldn’t find agreeable. No, he did not like change at all.

But perhaps, now that he was with Molly, he didn’t need to fear ending up all alone once again.

“I see. We should probably leave the fiancé’s to it, shouldn’t we?”

Sherlock tilted his head back to get a better look at his girlfriend. “Yes, but mostly because I want to be here with you a little longer.” She laughed as he flipped her on her back to smother her words with a kiss.

 

* * *

Nothing changed much between Sherlock and Molly after their declarations of love –but at the same time, everything was different.

They still worked together, still saw each other in their free time. But now, there was more teasing, more connection, more love. And as John would grumpily add: more public display of affection.

(Happy as he was for his friend, was it absolutely necessary to dump all research work with him so Sherlock could go snog Molly? So much for partnership.)

They agreed Molly should keep her flat: Sherlock still needed a bolt hole every now and then (its cover totally blown now that they were officially together, but he didn’t care) and she would still be close to work. Instead, they would alternate living at each other’s flat. He had already planted his things in her home, she could now carry her stuff  into 221B. Mrs. Hudson didn’t mind her staying over more often: as long as she promised to pop by for tea every now and then.

Molly introduced Sherlock to her family and friends. Her parents were excited to see him again, even more so since they had kept their fingers crossed a romantic relationship would ensue. They gave him knowing looks and congratulated him on a successful endeavour when Molly wasn’t listening. Her older brother Michael and older sister Madelaine harboured a more genuine happiness for their sister’s relationship, and treated Sherlock with warmth and due respect. 

In turn, he brought her around to see his family. What an experience _that_ turned out to be. Driving Molly up to Buckingham Palace was an awkward. Showing her around the place like belonged there was unsettling to her. Introducing her to Mother and Mycroft was odd, as they treated her with an icy formality that put even more stress onto Molly’s nerves.

“I really don’t fit into that environment.” she had confessed after they got home. “It’s good I was born into lower gentry, because I’m certainly no Princess material. ” What she didn’t say, was just _how_ concerned the visit had made her. If she and Sherlock ever needed to make public appearances alongside his family – he had assured her they wouldn’t, but she didn’t quite believe that – how would she get through? She wasn’t cold, she wasn’t their kind of pulled together. Professional, yes, but also bubbly, outspoken about her emotions and sometimes slightly clumsy. Not but treats, but nothing like them.

Sherlock had been irritated at her self-doubt. As if his family was _that_ great. “Stop worrying. They are nothing.” he had snapped.

(“We just needed to test her character, see if she fits in with how we uphold ourselves in public.” Mycroft had later told his brother. “She seems nice.” Sherlock had thrown his brother a dirty look. “Don’t you two dare play games with her.” The older Holmes had raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t you doing just that by not telling her your relationship is arranged and that she will be Queen one day?” Sherlock hated it when his brother was right – he ignored his texts and phone calls for the next three weeks purely out of spite.)

When John and Mary’s wedding came around, they spent hours helping their friends get their big day in order. During the festivities, they couldn’t quite keep their hands to themselves, and danced the night away at the reception. Eventually, they snuck away to make out outside against a tree.

The love making – another important point. Molly had once fantasised what sex with Sherlock would be like, and she had not underestimated it. He had been a bit rusty at first, nothing having had sexual contact in some years, but enjoyed getting to know every little part of it again. Sometimes, they fucked fast and hard on the nearest flat surface; sometimes, they savoured the pleasure and spent as much time wrapped up into each other in bed as possible. Everything in between also gave much enjoyment.

Of course they’d disagree or fight: over how Sherlock would sometimes waltz over Molly’s emotions and opinions, over how she demanded he let her know where he was when on a case, over his sternness and her clumsiness – but it wasn’t an issue. Molly knew how to stand up for herself and he would apologize when he’d been seriously wrong.

Without a doubt, things were good between the two of them.

 

* * *

They had been dating for over a year when one night, Molly sleepily opened her eyes to the sound of Sherlock calling her name.

She had just worked nine days straight – God bless St. Bart’s current issue with underemployment – and was utterly exhausted. He’d been waiting with her favourite take-out food when she got home: they’d eaten it quickly, and then moved to her couch. As he read a book, she’d put herself against him and fallen asleep soon after.

“Molly?”

“Hmmmmm…” _Not now love, just let me sleep a bit more._

Sherlock snapped his fingers in front of her face. “Wake up, this is important.”

Molly sat up and rubbed the sleep from her eyes. “I’m all ears.”, she emitted. Something twisted her stomach when she noticed how anxious he looked. Him, nervous. What the hell did he need to get off his chest?

“Do you love me?”

“Yes.”

“Are you happy with me?”

“Most days.”

He reached over to the coffee table, picking up an object that she was certain had not been there before.

“Then I hope you will do me the honour of becoming my wife.”

The object turned out to be a velvety black box, that Sherlock opened to reveal a gold ring.

Her eyes went wide in shock. Instead of bursting with joy, as Sherlock had anticipated, an anxious look flashed across Molly’s face. He flinched internally, as if she had slapped him across the face – hard. Her mouth moved, but no coherent sentence came out.

“I see,” he groaned as he shut the box again, “It seems I was mistaken in thinking I could suggest marriage to you. Do forgive me.” He motioned to put it in his trouser pocket when Molly’s hand closed over his. “Please don’t.” Her eyes were moist and looked at him apologetically. “Let me explain?”

Sherlock’s mind was screaming for him to get up and leave: this was a complete embarrassment. He didn’t want to listen to whatever justified it for her to turn him down. It would only worsen the pain ripping through him. Besides, he could probably guess why she was saying no.

“Is it because of my history with narcotics? As I’ve assured you many times, I’ve been sober over a decade and don’t plan on using again.”

“What?” She looked at him quizzically. “Christ, no no, that’s not what I wanted to say. It’s not that I don’t want to marry you, it’s just that I can’t.” Molly gathered her thoughts before speaking any further. “I love you, and since we’ve been together you’ve shown me more devotion and tenderness than I had ever expected from you.”

 _Then what exactly_ is _the problem?_ Sherlock thought to himself angrily. He did not understand where she was going with this.

“It’s your blood. It’s that you’re Royalty. Your mother and brother are nice people, but when I consider how they live their lives I am utterly suffocated.”

That wasn’t much more of an excuse either. “What exactly does that have to do with us?”

“I’m terrified that one day, they _will_ call on you to come back and be Prince once more – if I marry you, I will also have to fulfil my part in that. And I’m not sure if I’m capable of doing so, If I _want_ to do that.”

Sherlock’s right hand painfully gripped the ring box. For all his life, being Royal had been a curse rather than a blessing. Even now, when he had left it all behind, it was there to spoil one of the most precious things he had: his relationship with Molly.

Then there was also anxiety tightening his throat – for her fear wasn’t unjustified. Little did she know that he _would_ be going back to be King in a couple of years, and that she had been selected to support him all the way. _She will make a good wife_ , her parents had told him on the day they’d met. He didn’t doubt their words: he knew she would. What she told him now, however, meant that she wouldn’t be there if he picked up his Royal duties again.

Sherlock couldn’t let Molly go. He had come to love her and going back on that would be impossible.

He placed his hands on both sides of her face, gently wiping away the tears that had started to spill. “Never. I will never let that happen, do you understand? I will never allow them to force you into such obligations.” He pressed a firm kiss to her mouth.

When they broke away, Molly searched his face for any trace of doubt. “Really?” All she longed from him in that instance was safety, the knowledge that he would protect her from her fears no matter what.

He took one of her hands to lay it across his heart. “I swear on my dead father.”

After minutes of pure stress, a smile broke on Molly’s face as more tears fell down her face. She moved forward and wrapped her arms around his waist as she buried her face against his neck. “Then yes Sherlock, I would love to be your wife.”

He too felt a surge of relief, an arm tightening around her as his left hand went up to cup the back of her head. “Thank you, thank you, _thank you_.” He said, repeating the words like a litany.

Sherlock had meant every single word: he would protect Molly. He would never let any sort of harm or discomfort fall on her because of him. It was a certainty now: he needed to get out of that damned agreement with Mycroft, and fast.

The less she knew about it, the better it would be. He would fix it all.

 

* * *

 

Had it been up to Sherlock, they would have filed for marriage the next morning - he was impatient in making Molly Mrs. Holmes. But her ideas about their wedding were quite different. “Marriage is special. I’ll only get to do this once so I want to make it count.” she had responded to the suggestion of doing it quick. _I’ll only get to do this once_ – his fidgeting made place for something warm and fuzzy. What was the point again in forcing his will on her?

With the experience of planning John and Mary’s marriage, Sherlock made quick work of organising his own. They agreed on a small civil ceremony, followed by a reception with friends; the day was arranged to Molly’s wishes.A date was set for march 2013.

The big day arrived soon enough, and Sherlock was content to note the weather was soft and warm: perfect. Rain would be of no use and Molly would hate it. It was nearly 11 o’clock, and he stood inside a room at the old town hall of the London district of Islington. His hands were clasped behind his back as he stood waiting in front of the superintendent registrars desk, best man John beside him. In an hour or so, he would leave the building as husband with a wife. The thought made him happy, to say the least.

John softly nudged him in the side. “Mary seems to be having quite a nice time with your mother over there. Hell, she’s turned the bloody Queen into her best friend!”

Sherlock let his eyes fall upon his section of guests: Mycroft, his wife Anthea and their son James waited quietly for the ceremony to begin, but Mother and Mary were indeed chattering away.

“And she’s actually _smiling_. I always thought she really was made of ice.” The detective turned back to John with an amused expression. “That’s just an act she does because the public expects it of her. In private, she’ll talk more than Mrs. Hudson when given the chance. ”

Before John could answer, the bride made her entry.

Escorted by her parents – who made sure to pay appropriate courtesy to the Queen before sitting – Molly made her way towards Sherlock. A knee length, long sleeved lace dress hugged her petite frame. Her hair had been kept down, and fell around her shoulders in soft waves. Make up had been kept to a minimal and she clasped a small bouquet of light pink roses.

He held out his right hand to take one of hers, and gently pressed a chaste kiss to the back of her hand.

The muscles in his face ached from smiling so wide, but he couldn’t not supress his happiness as he looked at her. “You look wonderful.” Molly let out a giggle. “As do you, love.” Sherlock had involved her in deciding what suit he should wear for this day; she had not been that candid about her dress, but he remember her asking what he thought would look best on her… and it was nothing short of what she had on right now.

As a Prince, he had come across enough people willing to please him – but none did out of genuine love and respect. He felt incredibly thankful she bestowed that on him: Sherlock made a mental note to thank her properly later tonight, when they would finally be alone.

“If you are both ready, we can begin the ceremony.” The superintendent registrar spoke as he gestured for them to sit down, and Molly kept hold of Sherlock’s hand as they did. They sat like that for the next 45 minutes, as they listened to the conditions of their matrimony and exchanged vows. At the end of the ceremony, they finally signed their marriage certificate, with John and Madelaineas witnesses.

The next part of the day took Sherlock, Molly and their guests to one of London’s top restaurants for an extended lunch. Everything paid for by the Queen, as a gift for the couple. She had kissed them goodbye before they departed to the venue: “I realise you two value your privacy, and if Mycroft, the others and I join we will only attract attention. I shall invite you to the Palace soon enough for a lunch of our own.”

The lunch consisted of a number of small dishes, alternated with drinks and talking. John had the honour doing the best man speech: “Barely a year ago Sherlock was standing in my shoes and right now I understand perfectly why he was nervous about it.” he jokingly spoke. “I met Sherlock and Molly around the same time, and I never doubted that they would be perfect for one another. I did doubt if it’d ever come to a relationship, since my mate here is as indecisive as a child.” Sherlock grimaced at that, but they both knew everything was in good humour.

“I have found great joy in my marriage to Mary, and I wish you two all the same. I propose a toast.” John held up his glass, and waited for the other guests to do the same. “To Sherlock and Molly!”

“Sherlock and Molly!”

 

* * *

The newlyweds arrived back at their home early in the evening.

Exhausted as she was,  Molly insisted they retire to the bedroom straight away. After carelessly tossing her shoes in a corner, she flung herself onto the bed. She buried her head in a pillow and let out a content moan. “There’s nowhere I want to be more right now than in this lovely, soft bed.”

Sherlock snickered at the scene before him. “Understandably so, but you can’t go to bed with your clothes still on. Sit up. ” He pulled her up when she helplessly extended a hand, and moved her legs over the edge of the bed. Gently, he let down the zipper of the dress and slid it off of her body. He then peeled off her pantyhose and unclasped her bra.

“I quite like it when you are so tender and caring towards me.” Molly giggled. Sherlock smiled too as he handed her the oversized shirt she usually slept in. “As your husband, shouldn’t I take extra care of you?”

He went to take off his own clothing, when she stood and took over loosening his tie. “You can be so stern and thoughtful while working, it still gets a bit intimidating at times. Something like this is so intimate to me, it makes me feel infinitely close to you. And loved.” Sherlock stilled her hands to lean forward and deeply kiss her. He was finally becoming used to her expressions of love and he wanted to show her he felt the same.

When he finished changing, they crawled under the duvet and lay side by side: heads resting on pillows, arms put around each other loosely. Sherlock softly stroked her hair, intently looking at his wife.

“Are you happy?”

Her eyes watered at the question. _Yes. Absolutely. Wonderfully so. I have so much to be content with now_. “More than I’ve been in quite some time.”

“Then I don’t think you should be crying.”

“It’s not because I’m sad, it’s just-“ Molly sniffed loudly and wiped at her nose, “We got married today, it’s been one big emotional rollercoaster and I just feel really glad right now.”

Human emotions – completely without logic, Sherlock still felt. Would he ever get a proper grasp on them?

“The day was rather busy and full, wasn’t it?” He moved his head closer, laying his forehead against hers.

“But absolutely lovely. Top wedding planner you are, if Lestrade or Mrs. Hudson ever marry again you should help them too.” “I’ll keep it in mind as a backup plan for the day London’s criminals become law abiding.” They both laughed loudly at the mental image.

Sherlock closed his eyes and pulled Molly close. “Let’s sleep for now.”

She squirmed a bit in his arms. “This is our wedding night, shouldn’t we be doing other things?”

“No. You’re tired, I’m tired. The night isn’t over by a long shot, anyway. Let’s see to sex later, okay?”

Molly nodded and laid her head on his chest. “I’m keeping you up on that promise.”

 _I’m certain you will and I can hardly wait_.

“Goodnight wife.” Sherlock said with a smile

“Goodnight husband.”

 

* * *

Some hours later, Sherlock found himself pulled out of his sleep in a rather pleasant way. Molly was gently nipping at his neck and rubbing her groin against his.

“Good morning darling.” She purred in his ear. He moved to lay on his back, pulling her along to sit astride him.

“Same to you. How late is it?” His hands slipped under her shirt, caressing her back and stomach.

“Almost four. I felt it would not be bad to start the day early.” “Much agreed Mrs. Holmes.”

Sherlock pulled Molly down for a searing kiss, and everything except them was forgetting for a long time.


	5. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly finds out Sherlock has been lying to her and confronts him. Things don't go well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Important announcement at the end of the end of the chapter - please read!

Some months after the wedding, Molly received an invitation for tea from her mother-in-law. While the Queen had warmed up considerably since their initial meeting, she still felt uncomfortable about spending time with her – especially since Sherlock was not to come along. No, Molly was to meet his mother one on one in private. Royal etiquette, seeing the Queen as anything but that, staying at Buckingham Palace: it still felt unreal. 

As the appointment was of personal nature, Molly was let into the Palace via back entrance, away from the public eye. She was welcomed by a lady in waiting, who showed her to the Queen’s private quarters. 

“Margaret, how lovely to see you!” Molly was given a kiss on the cheek, and then moved to a seating arrangement in the center of the room. Tea was brought in soon after, and the Queen started chattering away: “Sherlock always keeps you away, I do so like having you here alone for once. How have you been? And your position at St. Bartholomew’s? My son complained you have to put in so much overtime whenever I see him, are you getting enough rest?” Molly responded in honest, and quietly laughed to herself as the Queen rapidly went on with more questions. 

Eventually, they finished their tea and the older woman spoke in a much softer tone: “Margaret dear, I must admit I asked you here for something more than just pleasantries. Would it be alright if I showed you something?” Molly’s curiosity was awoken, and she nodded her agreement. “This way.” The Queen gestured towards a door at the other end of the room. In silence, they made their way through a number of rooms, before arriving in a narrow gallery. On the left side, narrow windows let in light. On the right, several large paintings hang side by side on the wall. 

Molly couldn’t help her mouth from falling open. While accustomed to a certain display of wealth and power herself, what the Royal family did in this aspect still had the ability to render her speechless. The Queen turned to her with a smile. “On the occasion of both George and Sherlock’s twelfth birthday, I took them here and told them about their lineage. As you have become family as well, I would like to share the most important members of our line with you.” Molly’s eyes snapped back to her mother in law. “Of course, I would like to hear that.” 

Perhaps this was turning into bonding time? She could not say no to that. 

“The person I like to consider our founding mother, the great Queen Victoria.” The Queen looked up at the painting with a humble expression, her admiration clear to see. “Lived quite a life, when you think about it. Her choices as leader have been questioned, but I’ve drawn great inspiration from the strength and resilience she showed in life.” 

The older woman moved towards the next painting; Molly trailed close behind, not taking her eyes off of the pictures. “Her eldest son, King Edward VII. Invested heavily into our military department, but also did away with strict rules on who a monarch can and cannot interact with.” With a wink, she added: “I might say he made it possible for Sherlock to marry you, someone of lower standing.” 

Molly smiled, and said a thank you under her breath. She didn’t want to imagine how Sherlock would’ve ended up had court rules still been so strict. And, of course, they would not have married – something she that now seemed horrendous to her. 

“Edward’s eldest son Albert died young, and the throne passed on to his second son, whom we now know as George V.” This person Molly was familiar with. “He changed the family name to Holmes, right?” 

The Queen nodded in agreement. “Our house is of German origin, but that did not sit well with the population during World War I. A lot of anti-German sentiment, you see. Like his father, my great-grandfather felt that our family should be approachable to the public. He decided on a name quintessentially English and common, but still with enough flair.” 

 _Flair? That_ is _a family trait_ , Molly mused. Flair her husband had in abundance, and she loved it. 

“And here we have my beloved grandfather, King Albert I.” The Queen stepped forward to gently pat the frame of the painting. She then took another step back, and glared up at the picture with love. “George’s only son. Much like Sherlock in the sense that he initially loathed to be of royal blood. Between you and me,” The woman leaned closer to Molly, “This country was in a constitutional crisis on a number of occasion, as he threatened to leave constantly as a young man.” 

“That does sound a bit like Sherlock.” Molly joked. “Hot headed and wanting to have his way.” 

The Queen found her description of their shared traits funny too. “Quite so. My grandfather was bright and quick of mind too. I think they would have either gotten along fine, or killed each other.” Silence fell between them with that, and they stood studying the picture for a while. 

“You know something Margaret? And I’m going into familiar territory for you now, I think. My own father wasn’t much of a ruler. He enjoyed spending his wealth and using his status to get into places, but he was never a man of state.” The Queen gently moved along to the next painting before continuing her story. 

“I consider my grandfather to be the man who raised and prepared me for Queenship. I think he realized that my father wouldn’t get far in life and that the responsibility would fall onto my shoulders fairly soon. And it did, for as you probably know my father died of a severe heart attack at 48. Nobody cared much about excessive drinking and smoking in the 50s and 60s.” She smiled bitterly. 

Molly was indeed familiar with the story: two years after the death of his son, Albert I passed away too. The crown was then given to her mother in law, at that time married barely a year with a new born baby. 

“And this december I’ll be celebrating my fortieth year as Elizabeth II. Time does fly when you have fun, believe me.” 

Molly smiled awkwardly. Listening to their family history was interesting, but she also felt removed from it, and was unsure of what to say. 

“Margaret, I admitted just now that I didn’t ask you here today just because of pleasantries.” The Queen had turned to look at her daughter in law. “In part, that was my reason for asking you but there are… other matters at hand too.” 

Was… was Elizabeth _blushing_? A vague but nevertheless recognizable red colour had creeped onto the Queen’s face, a sight which bewildered Molly. She had hardly know her mother-in-law as someone who could feel embarrassed about anything. 

“Have you… Are you and Sherlock frequently intimate with each other?” 

Molly’s mouth dropped. _What?!_ “I’m sorry?” 

“May I look forward to another grandchild soon?” Elizabeth’s voice was gentle and more steady: she had recovered her composure. 

Molly, on the other hand, was quickly losing hers. “I don’t understand what -” 

“As I said, my 40th year as monarch is coming up. I look forward to living living a less public life and as I’ve told Sherlock, I think it would be good if he has a child when he takes over the throne.” 

At this, Molly’s confusion was complete. “But Sherlock – he isn’t…. Mycroft is the heir to the throne, right?” 

Elizabeth looked at Molly with a dark expression. “No? Has Sherlock not told you that Mycroft decided four years ago to pass on the opportunity?” 

Tears burned in Molly’s eyes as she realized what Elizabeth was saying. Sherlock, who had promised her a quiet life outside of the spotlight with the two of them against the worlds they had been born in – it had been a lie. All of it. He had been leading her on since the day they had first met. 

Elizabeth hesitantly put a comforting hand on Molly’s shoulder. “Oh my dear, I’m so sorry, I did not know that he-“ 

“I would like to go home.” Molly replied in a small voice, turning around and walking towards the door. She fumbled with the phone in her jacket pocket – her parents had some explaining to do. Then, she would deal with Sherlock’s betrayal.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock swiftly made his way up the stairs to their apartment: he had been out on a case since before dawn and could use a good rest and some food. He checked his watch – almost 6. Molly would probably have something ready by now. 

When he went inside, he was surprised not to find her there. He made work of his jacket and called out her name. Surely she must be here somewhere? He rummaged through the kitchen cabinets, and called her name again when no answer had come. The bedroom door opened, and Sherlock stopped dead in his track when he turned towards his wife. 

Something was wrong - _terribly_ wrong. 

Molly looked at him with squinted eyes, not hiding the sheer anger coming from them. She soon spoke, her voice alarmingly flat. 

“I went to see your mother this afternoon.” 

 _She had_? Oh, of course. Sherlock remembered that she had mentioned something about being invited to the palace. He had been hands deep into an experiment at that time (literally – substance testing in the bath tub) and had listened with half an ear. Big mistake. 

“Molly-” 

“She asked how I’m doing, how work is – if you and me are having lots of sex and if I’m pregnant already.” Molly smiled cynically. “Lovely conversation, as you can imagine. Then she was nice enough to explain she asked because you are Crown Prince and all and _naturally_ you need an heir. Is she serious with any of that?” 

Rhetorical question, Sherlock knew. By the looks of it, she didn’t doubt his mother’s words – and why would she? 

Oh God. This was all wrong, completely and utterly wrong. She shouldn’t have found out about it. Not at all and certainly not like this. Anxiety started to cloud Sherlock’s mind as he mentally fumbled for something to say, _something_ to stop Molly from looking at him like he was the most despicable person she’d ever seen. 

“I don’t think that-” he started, but she cut him off sharply, repeating her words with more force this time: “Is it true!?” 

He wanted to answer but couldn’t. Sherlock was speechless: he couldn’t figure out how to lie his way of out this one, but couldn’t tell the truth either. 

Molly’s patience soon ran out. “It doesn’t even fucking matter. She said you’ve known about it for four years. Four goddamn years. Do you have any idea how humiliating that was for me? To stand there and realise I have been lied to by my husband and see the same idea dawn on her face?” She now let out all her anger, while biting back tears. 

He didn’t deserve seeing tears spill for him, not when he had hurt her in such a grave way. 

“Let me explain. I planned on telling but I was going to-” 

Again, Molly was of no mind to listen to him. “Going to what? Don’t tell me you planned on cheating your way out of it and putting the responsibility back on Mycroft’s shoulder.” 

Spot on. That was _exactly_ what Sherlock had planned to do, and his expression showed surprise at how fast she had guessed his intentions. 

“Jesus Christ. Is cheating and lying all you can do?” 

 _No Molly no, it’s not. It’s not a lie that I love you. I never kept anything else from you, ever_. The angrier she got, the more Sherlock wanted to explain and say what he felt – but the words couldn’t make their way past the flames consuming his lungs and stinging his throat. 

Then, her eyes went wide and she grit her teeth, as if encountering another unpleasant memory. “And then when I got home, I thought about us and tried to make sense of it all. I suddenly recalled how we met. So I called my mother and I asked if she knew anything about what I’d just heard.” 

Molly paused for a moment, breathing out heavily to not let anger get in the way of what she wanted to say. “She denied it, but did admit that Mycroft enquired after me because you were looking for a wife and that _that_ was why you were visiting my parents that day.” 

She looked at him expectantly, waiting for an explanation - and underneath all the rage, desperately screaming for him to hold her and say it was all a misunderstanding and that everything was fine. 

Instead, he gazed back at her with a blank expression, his face the colour of snow and lips pressed into a thin line. His brain had seized funtioning. She had caught him off guard, and amidst the roaring emotions of it all he did not know what to say. He wanted to make it right, but her anger and clear hurt had overwhelmed Sherlock. 

Her eyes filled with tears and she snapped: “Do you have any understanding of how much you have hurt me? You lied to me about our future and you let me believe that our marriage is one of love, while I was in fact selected for you. You _know_ how much I’ve hated that my parents like to meddle with my life.” 

Sherlock swallowed hard. Still, no words. No movement in his feet. Nothing to follow up on the urge to clutch her to him and say it was all a misunderstanding and that he was not coming back on his promises to keep her safe. 

“How can you just stand there and say nothing?!” She was now shouting, desperation and anger over his silence taking control. 

But she’d had enough. From experience she knew that Sherlock wouldn’t talk if he didn’t feel like it – and that seemed to be the case. If she didn’t leave now, she’d probably smack him across the face a good few times. “I just packed a suitcase and I’m going to stay with a friend because I really don’t want to be near you right now. Don’t call or text me or come by the fucking morgue. I’ll let you know when you can speak to me again.” 

Molly walked back into the bedroom, grabbed her luggage and rushed out of the apartment.  

She was gone in a matter of seconds, yet it had all happened in slow motion in Sherlock’s head. 

_Please stay._

_I love you._

_There is no one else for me._

The sentences had gone through his head, but his tongue had been tied and he could not say them. 

When feeling returned to his body, he went to find his phone. Sherlock called his mother and demanded to know what had happened: her version of events matched Molly’s. His fingers tightened over the device as he listened to what she said. He hung up and violently tossed the thing through the room; it loudly crashed into a bookcase, bursting into different pieces. His knees gave out and Sherlock sank to the ground, curling up into a foetal position. 

How was he ever going to make this right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT 31.08: I had initially stated that I wished to abandon this story with the publication of chapter 5. Unexpected warm response has, however, been the kick in the butt I needed to get my act together and not give up on myself and this Sherlolly tale. Please expect a final chapter + epilogue in the upcoming week!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft comes to save the day, leading Molly to not give up on her husband just yet.

A month and a half later, Molly still hadn’t made contact with Sherlock. 

Her initial anger had wavered and had been replaced by a profound sadness. She was still furious with her husband for keeping such a crucial part of their future from her, yet Molly now felt more like crying. 

Sherlock wasn’t perfect and she had never been blind to his bad traits. Molly had known exactly what she’d gotten herself into when they married, but she’d thought he was past the point of being manipulative and deceiving with her. 

Guess she was wrong… 

Molly sighed as she leaned back against the kitchen countertop. The teakettle hissed softly on the stove beside her, warming water for a nice cup of tea. 

Ever since falling out with Sherlock, her best friend Meena had been kind enough to take her in. “You can stay here as long as you need, my cooking skills can heal any broken heart!” Meena had said with a sympathetic smile. Terribly kind and very tempting, but Molly knew she couldn’t hide from Sherlock forever. 

Meena had left early for work that morning, but Molly had a late shift and was not due to start until 2 that afternoon. It was almost 10 now, so she had some time to spare and gather her thoughts. 

She had to contact Sherlock sooner or later. Hear what he had to say, see if they could work things out. But that wouldn’t solve the biggest problem of all: she had unknowingly married the future king of the United Kingdom, which would one day make _her_  queen by his side. 

Molly was absolutely certain of one thing: ruling a nation was never something she had wanted. She needed Sherlock, a quiet life together, the silence of the morgue and outings with friends on Friday nights. 

 _What a damn mess_ , Molly thought as she turned to pick up the kettle and turn off the gas underneath it. 

She was about to pour water into her favourite mug when the doorbell rang. When she opened the door, Molly found a completely unexpected visitor. 

“Mycroft?” 

Her brother in law, as always impeccably dressed, stood in front of her. 

“Goodmorning Molly. Can I come in?” 

Hesitantly, she let the man slip past her into the apartment. His eyes flitted across the flat as he walked around casually before entering the kitchen. 

“Oh, I see you have prepared water. Excellent timing. Please allow me to make both of us a cup.” 

Molly paced Meena’s livingroom as she heared Mycroft go about his work in the kitchen. He soon came out again, two steaming cups of tea in his hand. He placed them carefully onto the table. 

“I came to see you about my brother.” Mycroft then spoke, elegantly sitting down in one of Meena’s worn-out chairs. 

Molly crossed her arms defiantly, choosing to stay standing. “I don’t see how our problems are any of your business.” 

His lips turned up in a small, smug smile. “In many ways, this affair _is_ my business. Please, do sit so I can explain.” 

“ _Sherlock_ hurt me, not you. I don’t appreciate you trying to fix his wrongs.” 

“Trust me, I have no intention of doing so.” Mycroft leaned back in his chair. “Only my own. And that of our mother. You see, this situation of yours is not exactly as it may seem. Sherlock himself might not even have all the fact straight.” He once again gestured to the sofa opposite him. 

Molly, tired of his vague statements, did as asked. “Really Mycroft, I’m not in the mood for this. Please say what you mean to say and leave me be.” 

“I will. All I ask is for you to listen to what I have to say, so this crisis can quickly be resolved.” He reached forward, picking up his cup of tea. He carefully sipped a few times before setting the mug back down. 

“I should start with the most important bit – my brother is not heir to the throne. That would be me.” 

“Really? I mean _really_?” Molly threw up her hands in exasperation. “I can’t follow any of you people anymore.” 

“You have been deceived, this is true. But it was not our plan to fool _you_ specifically. Sherlock was the intended target.” 

“What?” Molly replied. 

Mycroft shifted in his seat. “All of this started a long time ago. Way before you ever came into the picture. You see -” He gathered his thoughts for a moment before speaking again. “I was made to be royalty, Molly. I have the brains, the personality, the grandeur of a true monarch that would make any of my ancestors proud. My brother, however, is a different story.” 

Molly could agree to that. “Sherlock hates all of it.” 

“To say the least.” Mycroft nodded his agreement. “From the day we were born, Sherlock and I were extraordinary. Our parents tried to raise us as normal children, but naturally they failed miserably. We are heirs to a long line of kings and queens – we are anything but normal.” A satisfied smile played at this lips. “Being a Prince has always come easy to me. For Sherlock, it’s been a burden.” 

“Yet you’re telling me you let him believe he was going to inherit the throne nevertheless?” Molly retorted. Just because she was angry with her husband did not mean she liked him being played like a puppet. 

“Yes – but for his own good.” Mycroft said softly. “Sherlock is, as I don’t need to tell you, difficult. He is selfish, arrogant, impulsive, loathes just about everyone. But he has his heart in the right place in many ways too. He will go through hell and back for people that he loves, and _loving_ he does with a burning passion. You of  all people will know this.” 

Tears burned in Molly’s eyes. Sherlock’s deception had hurt her immensely, but that hadn’t diminished the good memories she shared of their marriage. Her husband wasn’t a regular touchy-feely type boyfriend, but he had always been faithful to her. Or so she had thought. 

“Our father knew that too.” Mycroft’s expression darkened, emotion crossing his face. “He knew that at the end of the day, Sherlock was a sensitive boy who needed his own space and his own life and the comfort of a few close friends. Our late father knew that being in the spotlight as a Prince would keep Sherlock from living the life best suited to him.” 

“Again: what was this crown prince business about then?” Molly asked sceptically. 

“It was…” Mycroft mused as he took his teacup from the table again, “A little push in the right direction.” 

“Now you’ve completely lost me.” 

“My father never said it with so many words, but I think he felt responsible for Sherlock’s problems. I think he realized that my brother had been scarred by our royal life, and that being a sort of social recluse was his answer to it.” Mycroft shrugged. “Not a very good answer, considering what I just told you about Sherlock’s _needs_. So, when my father learned he was terminally ill, he decided to put into motion the events to have let us to this very moment.” 

Mentally, Molly lined up all the bits of information that Mycroft had just given her. “What you’re telling me is that your father wanted Sherlock to believe he was going to be crown prince, despite being the younger brother, so he would – I don’t know, _be forced to come out of his shell_?” 

“I loathe the term but – bingo Molly, bingo.” He leaned back with a satisfied grin. “We told Sherlock I could best work my magic behind the scenes, while _he_ would be required to follow in our mothers footsteps. He didn’t like it, but recalling the wishes of our father, whom he truly loved, he soon complied.” 

Molly’s stomach twisted. What a sick sort of plan, to _play_ a relative in such a way. “And what was my role in all of this?” 

“Naturally, if Sherlock was going to be king, he would be in dire need of a wife. My mother and I pulled some string, did some background checks – and then we found you. The perfect companion for my brother. All we needed to do then was, as they say, hook you up.” 

At this, Molly’s revulsion was complete. “This is revolting. We were set up!” 

“I prefer to think of your meeting as a sort of blind date.” 

“A blind date?” Molly fumed. “You just told me my marriage has been arranged from before I even knew Sherlock existed!” 

“That is a false assumption Molly.” Mycroft retorted. “You were arranged to meet, _not_ to marry. You and Sherlock were under no obligation to wed. My mother and I simply thought the two of you might hit it off. And you did.” 

Molly wasn’t so easily calmed. “I _hate_ being played and I _hate_ being taken for a fool.” 

Mycroft offered her a small smile. “And that is your every right. What I wish to ask you is: does it really matter?” 

“Are you _serious_? You’re asking me if it shouldn’t matter that I was taken advantage of like an idiot?” she furiously replied. 

“You now know your initial meeting with Sherlock somewhat staged. You now also know what expired after that was all down to the two of you. What I’m asking you is: if you are happy with my brother, as I have gotten the strong impression you are, should it truly matter you met because of other people?” 

Silence fell between Molly and Mycroft. She was still upset – because of the depths of this betrayal, because of the many ways in which she’d been tricked. Yet, in the back of her mind, a small voice was becoming bigger and bigger. 

 _Mycroft is right. Does it really matter all that much? Would you have gone out with Sherlock in the first place if you’d known your parents wanted it?_  

“You can’t expect of me to go on like nothing happened.” 

“I don’t. I do wish to offer this confession as a sort of peace.” Mycroft swallowed heavily. “I will… go see my brother, today, and tell him the truth as I have told it to you just now. Then all lies will be out of the way, and you can start anew with Sherlock. For real this time, if you like.” 

That sounded good. “I would very much appreciate that.” 

Mycroft gave her a small nod. Eventually, Molly plucked up the courage to steer their conversation in a different direction. 

“Have you seen Sherlock? How is he?” 

“As good as any man who believes to have destroyed his marriage.” 

 _Aha_. 

Molly wasn’t sure what she had expected to hear – or, what she’d _wanted_ Mycroft to say about Sherlock’s wellbeing. 

“My brother behaved poorly, but his regret is genuine. If you were to talk to him, I’m sure you could work things out.” In a gesture unlike himself, Mycroft reached forward and gently squeezed Molly’s hands, which were folded in her lap. “I’ll leave you to your thoughts.” 

As the front door closed behind him, Molly was indeed alone with just her mind. 

She had decisions to make. This situation might have floored her, but she was not one to stay down.

 

* * *

 

It took a Molly a few more days to figure herself out before she went to see Sherlock. 

After checking in with both John and Mrs. Hudson to make sure their privacy would not be disturbed, she slowly made her way up the staires to what had become home in the past year. 

The door to 221B was not closed. Reluctant to simply barge in and awkwardly run into her husband, Molly hesitated on the doorstep. The living room looked like it had done when Molly left de flat nearly two months ago: Sherlock’s clutter was everywhere, yet there was a system to it and any kind of garbage had seemingly been disposed of. 

Being tidier than Sherlock, Molly had insisted on cleaning up the flat a little bit when she first arrived. _Huh_ , she thought to herself. Seemingly, her husband had picked up on some of her cues. 

Molly expectantly knocked on the door. “Sherlock?” 

As soon as Molly had uttered his name, the person it belonged to came rushing out from the kitchen. 

He looked entirely dishevelled – his hair uncombed, shirt and trousers wrinkled and no shoes on his feet. 

“Molly…” Sherlock mumbled, his mouth agape in surprise. 

“Hello Sherlock.” 

He stared at her for a while, his eyes taking her in, before speaking again. “Sorry, I wasn’t supposed to be here. Came back for some files this morning and fell asleep. I- uhm, I guess you’re here to pick up your things? Would you like me to get some boxes?” 

Molly let out a nerves giggle, the tension in her body ebbing away. Oh, Mycroft had been right. Sherlock _did_ feel guilty and expected to worst. This she could work with. 

“Christ Sherlock, no.” She said, stepping forward towards him. “I’m not here to gather my things.” 

He looked at her again, confused this time. 

“And I don’t mean to divorce you either.” 

“You – you’re not?” Sherlock replied in a small voice. 

“No. But we do need to have a serious conversation, obviously.” 

Molly pushed past her husband, flopping down in her favourite armchair by the hearth. “Sit with me, please?” 

Sherlock followed her lead, stiffly joining her in his own chair. 

“Mycroft told me he’d gone to see you.” He said. 

“He did. I wasn’t quite expecting him to confess he’d made fools out of you and me.” She smiled. 

Sherlock nervously shot back a small grin of his own. “Infuriating business, really. Mostly because I fell for it with my eyes open. I shall be suspicious of _anything_ he ever tells me from now on.” 

“He deserves it.” 

“That and much worse.” Sherlock grumbled. “But to be frank I was… relieved, most of all.” 

Molly nodded. 

“Naturally, I did not fall into my brothers arms to show my gratitude, in fact I shall make it an effort to never let him know I was happy but – I was. I am. I have never wanted to be a prince.” 

With this out from under, Molly saw her opportunity. “Is that why you did it then? Lie to me?” 

Sherlock stiffened in his chair again. “In part, certainly, but…” 

“But what?” 

“I also did it because I was afraid I would lose you.” Sherlock explained. 

“And it didn’t occur to you lying to me about something so important could also lead to that?” She replied. 

“There was no reason for you to know.” He insisted. “You have always been clear about how your noble background bothered you and that a life as royalty was not what you envisioned for yourself. I knew telling you would only upset you and what would have been the point in that?” 

Molly sighed in frustration. “Sherlock, you can’t do that to me.” 

“Do what?” 

“Lie to me. Assume how I’m going to feel. Judge what is best for me.” Molly boomed. “Play me like some stupid toy!” 

Shock appeared on her husband’s handsome face. “You are – but - I’ve _never_ considered you to be an object I could do with as I pleased.” 

“It certainly is how you’ve made me feel.” 

Silence hung between them at that. Sherlock refused to look at her, but Molly wasn’t going to be the one to speak first. Not until he _understood_. 

“I’m sorry.” he eventually whimpered. “For making you feel like that. For driving you out of our home.” 

He spoke the words in such a tender and genuine way that Molly could not hold back the tears rushing to her eyes. Her husband wasn’t one for lovey-dovey behaviour, but she didn’t care. When he _was_ honest and openhearted with her, she couldn’t help but feel her love for him grow. 

“I didn’t mean for this to get so out of hand Molly. _Please believe me_.” 

“I do Sherlock. Oh, I do.” Molly replied, rubbing at her eyes. “I know your sorry, but I just-“ 

“What?” Sherlock said, getting up and crouching down beside his wife. “What else can I do?” 

“Stop this nonsense.” Molly caressed his face gently. “Trust that I am an adult woman who can take of her own feelings _and_ your messy life well enough. I am your wife, you can’t just shut me out like that.” 

“Not even from failed experiments that might have left some of your belongings in ruins?” 

“ _Especially_ not from things like that, you idiot.” She smiled again, this time planting a quick kiss to his forehead. “Did I get through that thick skull of yours? Because we cannot do this again, Sherlock.” 

“No. No, you’re absolutely right.” He moved back towards her, planting a light kiss on her lips. “I promise to be better from now on.” 

Then, as though what he’d said had reminded him of something, Sherlock jumped up. “As a sign of my resignation to behave better as your husband, I should immediately confess something.” 

Molly looked at him expectantly, a cheeky smile on her face. “Yes?” 

“I might have gotten a roommate while you were gone.” 

“Oh?” 

“I was rather lonely with you gone, but I did it mostly to save the poor fellow. Criminals shouldn’t be allowed to have pets, quite frankly.” Sherlock said, his usual arrogant demeanour returning. 

“Pets?” Molly exclaimed. “You stole someone’s animal?” 

“Stealing isn’t the right word – I prefer rescuing. That woman had killed atleast four people, she was hardly in a state of mind to properly raise a puppy!”

 As Sherlock made his way up the stairs to show Molly the dog he'd recently taken in and kept in John's old room, they continued to tease each other back and forth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A kind reader posted their own version of this chapter (kinda) in the comment section of chapter 5 after my initial statement that I would abandon this story. Please read that too and show them love!


	7. Epilogue

_Two years later_  

Molly sat on the sofa, wrapped up comfortably in her favourite sweater as she held her six month old daughter in her lap. Blackbeard, the King Charles' spaniel, lay at her feet with one eye trained on the television. 

“Look Lizzie, there’s your grandmother. Your uncle is the one wearing the big crown. Let’s see if we can spot your father somewhere too…” Molly gently said. 

“Not a chance.” A familiar voice sounded from the door. 

“Sherlock?” Molly replied, turning her head towards him. “Aren’t you supposed to be in Westminster right now?” 

“And ruin Mycroft’s big day? Not a chance.” Sherlock removed his coat and picked up Blackbeard, who had ran towards her owner as soon as he’d spoken up. 

“In fact-“ he said as he sat down next to Molly, “I passed our invitation along to John and Mary. I'd mentioned I didn't care to attend Mycroft's coronation since you weren't going, so they bullied me into giving up the invite.” 

Blackbeard made herself comfortable in Sherlock’s lap as he gently scratched behind her ears. “Yes Elizabeth, let it be known your father is indeed a generous person.” 

At the sight of her daughter’s stretched out arms, Molly held her up so she could press a baby kiss to her fathers face. 

“How are my three favourite girls?” 

“Good. In fact, you came in at just the right time.” 

“I did?” 

“Yes, darling.” Molly said as she pointed at the empty bowl on the table. “We just ran out of popcorn and I can't be bothered to get up.”

Sherlock sighed as he got up again. "Oh, I promised to treat you well didn't I?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised the final two bits to this story! I dedicate this to all readers - I could not have mustered the motivation within myself to write these final words if you hadn't been so supportive to me when I posted chapter 5 last week. We're all just anonymous people on the internet at the end of the day, but I've yet to find one bad soul in the Sherlolly corner of the world wide web. Hugs and kisses to every single one of you! Thank you again and I hope this was a satisfactory ending! :D


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